


Trapped

by SilverShadows



Series: When you're going through Hell... [1]
Category: MASH (TV), The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, M/M, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Sexual Coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:07:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4904899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverShadows/pseuds/SilverShadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are no characters from The Sentinel in this fic. It's just the sentinel/guide concept applied to MASH.</p><p>Hawkeye Pierce has known he's a guide since a young age and never had a problem with it. However things happen in war that would never be tolerated in peace-time and one more horror of war is catching up to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trapped

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to read a MASH/sentinel fic for ages but couldn't find any, so I finally wrote my own. Turned out pretty dark though. If anyone knows of any other MASH/Sentinel fics I'd love it if you could tell me where to find them or post a link, cheers! :)
> 
> This is not intended to be Trapper bashing, I like Trapper but he is not in control of himself in this fic. The consent is missing on both sides, Hawkeye and Trapper are caught in a hellish situation that is in no way their fault and deal with it as best they can. Think of it as if someone's drugged Trapper against his will (the army in this case), he isn't responsible for his actions.

There's a hole in the tent.

Hawkeye stares at the drips coming through the battered canvas, entirely focused on the rhythm dripping onto his laundry pile.

He should really get up and move it if he didn't want mildew growing on his socks.  
Or better yet sew up the hole. The crow is perched on the stove at the edge of his vision. It's watching him.

There's a brief movement of the stale air as Trapper exits the tent without a word. His lion stalking behind him, tail twitching at the tension.

Hawkeye's eyes close as he swallows convulsively, mentally cursing the army in general and the General in charge of Sentinel Co-ordination in particular. He aches all over and there'll be a new batch of wounded arriving soon so he can't even hide away to lick his wounds in private. Suicide is starting to look more attractive by the day. He's going to die anyway at this rate, why prolong the suffering?

And if Burns makes one comment, just one! About the state he's in or serving his country on his knees or back then Hawkeye's going to break his ferret-like face. Huddling under his blanket (for cover not warmth, Korea in the summer is an oven, even in the rain) Captain Benjamin Franklin 'Hawkeye' Pierce MD and Guide cries himself to sleep.

***

 **Hawkeye's POV**  
I never minded being a guide, there had been a few in the family before and I'd known from a young age it meant one day I'd meet and partner with a sentinel. As a kid it had seemed great, a lifelong best friend, and plenty of sentinels go into medicine so I didn't have to worry about a forced career change, I already knew I wanted to be a doctor and registering as a guide would even help fund my degree.

The reality was somewhat different. Possibly without the war all would have been well and I'd have continued looking for a compatible partner to spend my life with, pretty much like anyone else. But formal declaration or not this police action was enough of a war to have draft notices sent out.

Sometimes I think it would be easier if I could hate Trapper but the rotten thing is I genuinely like the sentinel. Trapper is funny, compassionate, a loving father and a skilled surgeon. I respect him as a sentinel and surgeon, but also as a friend.

Unfortunately trying to guide the man is ruining my life worse than the war.

Why the army in it's infinite insanity can not understand the damage it was doing to sentinels and guides alike, I'll never understand (actually it probably does but doesn't care). Ripping happily bonded sentinels from their guides, shipping them overseas and forcing them to work with similarly shanghaied guides is just cruel to everyone involved.

Sentinels and guides are leading the way to gender equality in draftees. Male or female, if you are a sentinel or a guide you are bound to serve your country. Exceptions are only granted if there are children, which is what had happened to Dr and Nurse McIntyre. With two daughters one of the pair was granted a pass (almost in every case this is awarded to the female of the two) to stay at home and look after the children while the other was drafted and paired up with a 'working partner' whose unfortunate job it is to desperately try their best to keep the sentinel sane, functioning and non-feral for as long as possible.

With enough will-power you can theoretically make it to forty unbonded before nice men in white coats come to give you a lovely new jacket that ties in the back and your very own padded room.  
While a permanent bond is necessary for all of us eventually (and unfortunately I'm beginning to believe I won't leave this camp with enough sanity to form a bond with anyone and will be needing that padded room) in the meantime unbonded sentinels and guides often form shallow or 'working' bonds with temporary partners that can be easily broken, leaving no lasting damage.

Unfortunately once a pair has bonded they can no longer form 'working' bonds with others as their minds and spirits are now attuned to their partner and they can no longer 'feel' others.

The upshot of all this being that Trapper can't ground himself using me because his hind-brain is looking for Louise. The only way to overwhelm his bond with Louise long enough to ground himself on me enough to remain stable is sex. It's not that I've got anything against having sex with another guy, under twenty percent of sentinels are female, and only about 1 percent of the population are sentinels. I've always kinda figured I'd get with a male sentinel at some point in my life, even if I end up being one of the few male guides who bag a lady sentinel (I do like the ladies but I'm not opposed to a guy in theory, or I wasn't until now at least).

I'm not sure if medicine is a plus to meeting female sentinels or not, on one hand it's a more genteel career than many sentinel-oriented careers. On the other hand the female sentinels I've met (a grand total of two actually) seem to feel they have something to prove and aim for the toughest jobs they can get (military: both were recon marines).

Either way this is different, what I have with Trapper isn't a mutual relationship. This is painful, both physically and spiritually. Instead of the gentle surface connection I'm used to, and that unbonded sentinels commonly used with temporary guides Trapper is used to a deeper bond, needs a deeper bond. He can't sense me offering a connection so he desperately lashes out looking for it blindly. It feels like he's raking psychic claws bone-deep into my soul, trying make them catch and gripping painfully tight when they do. It's painful, violating and slow to heal. Not that it has a chance to heal as the wounds are always reopened the next night.

***

When Trapper had first turned up we sat down and discussed the best way to try and handle the situation we'd been stuck with. Trapper didn't want to cheat on his wife if he could avoid it and he was worried about starting to resent me if he did end up having to, which would wreck our working relationship.

So we agreed to try the traditional methods first, scent immersion etc. Trapper would sleep with one of my recently worn shirts and we spent pretty much every waking hour together, getting to know each other and trying to establish a foundation for a surface bond. Luckily we quickly became close friends, natural instincts to protect each other helped along by our similar personalities and values. As a result we managed to make it work for a short while. In a less stressful situation it might even have been enough long-term, but not in the pressure-cooker of a MASH unit just three miles from the front, complete with snipers and shells. We are far too close to enemy territory for Trapper to relax and get by with a minimal surface bond.

I'm kind of ashamed to admit that I anxiously wait for lulls with less pure motivations than fewer kids being wounded and killed nowadays. During lulls I can almost pretend everything is normal, or at least nearer the way things were at the beginning when it was just us versus Burns and Hot Lips, with an exasperated Henry pointedly not looking on.

I just realised I have a 'normal' for Korea. That requires a belt of home-made elixer (I know it's only pretending to be gin but it would be rude to call it on it), I've definitely been here too long.

It had been a slow slide to hell, and the worst thing was that I could see it coming but had refused to acknowledge it. I kind of wonder now if it would have been different, better, if I had. Maybe things wouldn't be so bad if I had tried to persuade Trapper that a more extreme method (just say sex you moron, call a spade a spade) was necessary before Trapper was semi-feral and beyond reasoning with.

At first Trapper just sat a bit closer. On bad nights, after a particularly long session in OR he might crawl into my bunk like a very hot, very heavy blanket but there was nothing really sexual about it. Later Trapper had given in to his need for a deeper connection and started joining me in chasing the nurses. And if he tended to chase after nurses that I'd er… 'rendezvoused with' recently nobody commented, if they noticed at all. I certainly wasn't going to. Jokes about splitting a nurse aside it was better to cheat with another woman, the Trapper reasoned, than another guide. He knew, logical or not, that he'd be far more upset about Louise cheating with another sentinel than with another man.

He didn't completely lose it until we had an unexpected break in a lull, shortly after Henry's death (which in itself added yet more straw to a very overloaded camel, as Klinger would say) and while Major Pain-in-the-ass was in command. After a week of Frank throwing his weight around and giving ridiculous orders that cut into our sleep, receiving a flood of wounded from an unexpected Chinese offensive leading to a thirty-nine hour session in the OR was very nearly the last straw. With only a few, short breaks and down a surgeon we were operating in our sleep before we were through, desperate to avoid losing patients who could have been saved from dying for lack of a free table.

If I'd just been able to get Trapper over to the swamp and settled for the night it might have been ok. At least for a little while longer, but no, Ferret-face Burns once more demonstrated his extraordinary flexibility when he shoved both feet in his mouth and his head up his ass. He shot his mouth off and Trapper snapped, lunging across the changing room fully intent on killing the irritant.

Very rarely do I regret taking the Hippocratic oath, I'll admit I was very tempted to just let Trapper kill the weasel (still kinda regret the opportunity lost) but the MPs ran in and I couldn't let Trapper get shot over attacking his commanding officer (no matter how much the worm deserved it) when I could intervene.

Damn shame really, sentinel protection laws hold that sentinels are not responsible for their actions in a feral state no charges could have been filed, perfect opportunity to get rid of Ferret-face and we missed it. Still I did my duty, both as a doctor and a guide and managed to get in front of Frank before Trapper could tear his obnoxious head off. Trapper was so far gone he didn't even notice. It's an interesting experience having someone try to move through you, I don't recommend it.

As he reached around me to grab Frank I caught his head and pulled his face down to the crook of my neck, hoping the scent of a known guide would calm him down. At least enough that he didn't kill me along with Frank.

Running one hand through his swear-soaked curls and firmly stroking his back with the other I kept up a soft mantra of: “Come on Trap, it's not worth it. Come back to me. Easy Trap, it's Hawkeye, calm down.”  
It worked, in a way. Trapper stopped trying to grab at Frank and buried his face in my neck, grabbing me in a tight hold instead. I nearly lost my feet as he pulled me against him, one hand biting into my upper arm, his other an iron bar around my back.

Whereupon the Major disasters promptly started screeching about charges and conduct unbecoming. Trapper let out a deep, ferocious snarl that I could feel vibrating in his chest and tightened his grip, crushing me to him tight enough that I was struggling to breathe and leaving finger-shaped bruises on my arm. Unfortunately the first of many.

At least the sergeant in charge of the MPs was smart enough to ignore Frank because he refused to senselessly get his men killed and simply started quoting the manual at the Major idiot: never attempt to interfere with a potentially feral sentinel unless lives are at risk. Thank God the man was smart enough to step in front of Burns, blocking his view of, and more importantly access to, Trapper to do so. I shudder to think of what would have happened if Frank had tried to touch Trapper in that state. Trap would've have slaughtered him and while that'd be no great loss I doubt he'd have been able to stop.

While the sergeant continued quoting regulations (probably saving the whole camp in the process, one time I can think of when Army Regs have done some good) Trapper, keeping his painfully tight grip on my arm stormed out of post-op, scattering eavesdroppers and people 'just going about my business, complete coincidence my business happened to be near here' right and left. I kept up my increasingly desperate mantra of: “It's ok Trap, come back to me. Easy Trap, it's Hawkeye, calm down. Please Trap...”

He nearly tore the door to the swamp of its hinges when he opened it and shoved me through ahead of him. He must have been looking for 'safe' smells or territory (or as near as you can get in camp) because he headed straight for his bunk. The cot broke when he threw me on it, tipping over and splintering from the force. Trapper's roar of anger broke through my gasping from the pain and triggered a flight response from me that was probably a bad idea.

If I'd submitted at that point… Well it would still have hurt but I'd probably have fewer cracked and broken bones. I couldn't help it though, that noise reached right past all rational thought and jabbed a button in my brain marked 'primal terror'.

I scrambled to run, to bolt, to do anything to get away but Trapper has a good seventy pounds of muscle on me and he dropped on my back, slamming me back into broken remains of the cot, breaking my nose and pinning my shoulders to the canvas.

I could feel his cock against my ass when he covered my body, rubbing his groin against me and licking and biting at my neck between growls. When he bit deeply enough to draw blood I finally found the breath to cry out, still choking on the blood from my nose, but I doubt anyone could have heard over the noises Trapper was making anyway.

They tell you in basic training how you should act in these situations but they never tell you how it'll feel.

They never mention the terror of being pinned down. Of being helpless to escape and knowing what's going to happen but completely unable to stop it. The sick knowledge that no-one is coming.  
That the people you work with every day, that you depend on, call your friends and would willingly die for are going to let this happen to you because someone higher up the chain of command decided this was acceptable and wrote you off as 'collateral damage'.

How I hate that term.

The Army throws it around a lot during war. The wounded and dying kids they bring through here, the civilian lives we left behind as draftees, the children dead or maimed from hunting for brass in minefields, it's all 'collateral damage'. But I've never felt it so keenly as I did that night.

Pinned under a feral sentinel knowing I was about to be raped, that I couldn't stop it and that some general had rubber-stamped his approval of it. Collateral damage. That term is so steeped in blood and filth I'm amazed anyone can say it without gagging.

Logically I knew Trapper was following his instincts, which told him I was his last tenuous link to sanity, clinging to me and trying to spread his scent to pull himself back from a brink he couldn't recover from. But any logic was completely overwhelmed in panic, fear and pain.

Trapper straddled my thighs grabbing handfuls of my t-shirt and shirt together, yanking them up and over my head, forcing my arms up to give himself more access to skin. He pinned my wrists, still trapped in my shirt, to the canvas and started biting savagely at my shoulders and rubbing his three-day scruff against them. By the time he pulled my trousers off I had stopped fighting, lying limply under my friend, trying to get a grip myself. No-one was coming, no-one would help. If I did manage to get away, get out of the tent then the MPs would block me from any vehicles. And I can't outrun Trapper on foot normally, never mind while he's feral. He'd just drag me back into the tent and rape me anyway.

I'm not ashamed to admit I was crying, great gasping sobs that stole what little breath I had to spare. Trapper's hand braced between my shoulder-blades while the other bit into my hip, jerking me into position on my knees. He bore down on my back to stop me from moving and drove a finger into me dry. I screamed and sobbed, trying to kick, slap his hand anyway. But he just grabbed my hair and smacked my head off his footlocker, then yanked one of my arms up and twisted it behind my back, leaning his weight on it to keep me still. He manoeuvred me to his liking and spat on his hand this time before driving more fingers into me. Two, I think this time, while I moaned, whimpering pathetically and begging him to ease up before he broke my arm. I suppose I should be grateful he prepped me at all but I don't think I have any gratitude left in me.

My vision whited out when he finally thrust into me and I could hear a pathetic, high-pitched whine over Trapper's panting in my ear. It took me a moment to realise it was me and gulp a breath but that only started me crying again. Uncontrollable hiccuping sobs that hurt my chest and throat while hot tears burnt my eyes, as if I wasn't in enough pain already.

Unfortunately the physical pain was only part of it, Trapper was flailing desperately and psychically blind, unable to feel me due to his bond with Louise. When he finally found me he dug in with psychic claws, gripping me so tight it felt like I'd burst and dragging bloody furrows in my soul. Made me think of a little kid I saw once as a boy, he'd caught a fieldmouse somehow, don't ask me how. The kid just wanted to play, he didn't want to hurt the poor mouse, didn't mean to hurt it, but he didn't understand how to be gentle. Squeezed the poor little thing so hard it's eyes popped and he crushed its delicate, little ribcage.

Trap felt huge moving inside me, like he'd rammed a baseball bat up there, no wider, a telegraph pole. It was agonising, and punctuated strangely with sickeningly out-of-place flashes of pleasure whenever he hit my prostrate. His hands felt like brands gripping my hips, I buried my face in my arms and tried not to think about all the possible consequences of anal sex, praying Trap wouldn't perforate my colon or leave me with a permanent virulent reminder.

I guess I passed out at some point, though I have vague, uncertain recollections of being pulled from sleep by Trapper starting again, liking a my blood and kissing me. I'm not really sure how long it went on for or how many times he took me that night. The next thing I remember clearly is waking in the night, horribly sticky and in pain.

It was pitch black outside, the only light a glow from post-op. Trapper was slumped over me, softened cock still in my ass. His come, or maybe my blood, trickled down my inner thighs, over my balls to soak into the cot canvas turned floor.

Moving was a symphony in agony, with a supporting cast of ouch! But I was desperate to get clean, and on the bright side, if I hadn't bled to death yet my colon was probably whole. I eased my way out from under Trapper (whose name had never seemed so appropriate and unamusing), trying not to put any weight on my released arm and pausing to catalogue new injuries as I went. Bruises everywhere, no shortage of shallow cuts and splinters; bruised or cracked ribs, I register with a wince and my shoulders and neck ache from beard-burn and deep bites. Pretty sure I've got a spiral fracture in my right arm, really hope I haven't torn the ligaments (or rather I hope Trapper didn't tear my ligaments).

I was just putting on my robe to head to the showers when I heard it. A long, low growl that sent a shiver up my spine made me freeze in place. I turned, dreading what I would see, just in time to be slammed back against the door frame, cracking my head again.  
“Ugh, great my ribs'll match. Cracked from the front and cracked from the back.” I coughed and binked muzzily as Trapper set his teeth back in the crook of my neck and snarled. I was so tired and worn down by pain at this point that it was hard to care what was coming. I just didn't have the strength to fight again and went limp and pliant under Trapper's vicious fists and grasping hands, not even trying to defend myself.

He pushed me down on my back this time and I found myself blinking wearily at the tent's canvas ceiling, not really thinking at all, barely aware. Just cradling my broken arm, waiting for him to finish and get off me so I could go shower and get my arm x-rayed. I kept my eyes open this time, vaguely worried about concussion and not wanting to black-out again. Though I still refused to look at Trapper. I didn't want to remember him like that. Don't want to associate a friend with the most horrific violation I've ever experienced.

***

Trapper had calmed down enough to allow me to get treatment by the next morning, though not enough to allow anyone else to touch me. So, joy of joys I got to endure being patched back together by the guy who tore me apart in the first place; growled when I flinched and alternated between being aggressively possessive and miserably guilt-stricken. Still the only alternative was Frank, seeing we were still down a surgeon. Frankly I'd have preferred to do it myself with help from Margaret and Kelly.

I'd been right about the spiral-fracture in my arm and cracked ribs (five, four in the front, one in the back) but hadn't noticed a broken collar bone through the general all-over agony. I also needed a total of thirteen stitches in various places (including two in my ass that Trapper had to sedate me to put in because I kept panicking).

I keep thinking “The worst part of it is...” but then something else comes up. See it isn't over. I'm lounging on my cot (trying to avoid putting pressure on my ribs or moving my arm), which is inconveniently located in the same tent as Trapper's ex-cot. To put it another way I'm resting and recuperating in the tent I got raped in, with the guy who raped me in the next bunk. Or he will be as soon as he's finished requisitioning a new cot. And it's going to happen again.

You know what I hate? I hate it when people say, “You were lucky, it could have been much worse.”  
It always references something horrific having happened. And it's bull. Lucky would have been it not happening at all. If you start looking at it like that then you'll end up telling the corpses they're lucky they don't have to keep living. The worst thing is I've said it myself, to God knows how many kids in Post-Op.

I shouldn't be drinking on these painkillers but right now I don't give a damn. I just want to be numb. Which euphemisim are they gonna to use d'ya think? What will the report say? “Sentinel Captain McIntyre then retired for the night and 'took comfort' in his assigned guide? Stabilised himself with the aid of Guide Captain Pierce? As a result his stability was restored, no further actions required?”

I'd bet a hundred bucks Frank won't write: “In his feral state Sentinel Captain McIntyre dragged Guide Captain Pierce back to their tent, flung him on Sentinel Captain McIntyre's cot, breaking it (see attached notification of damage to government property) and injuring Pierce, then tore the terrified guide's clothes off and raped him repeatedly. This continued throughout the night. When Sentinel Captain McIntyre awoke to find the bleeding and shocky guide attempting to leave to seek medical treatment he promptly beat the guide almost unconscious and started again.  
As sentinel protection laws hold that sentinels are not responsible for their actions in a feral state no charges or actions are recommended at this time.”

I didn't get an answer. Wasn't really expecting one. Margaret knows I'm just ranting to blow off steam. She's been great, really. Still don't understand what she sees in the lipless wonder, but when the chips are down you can rely on Margaret Houlihan. Reminds me of that time at Battalion Aid, she was a rock then too. And she hasn't taken my booze away or even commented on the fact that I've almost drunk the still dry, just helped me drink it.

***

Radar keeps looking at me with wide, wounded eyes that I don't know how to fix (and kind of resent feeling like I'm supposed to. I'm the one who got hurt dammit! Now I've got to comfort my friends over it too??!!). Margaret doesn't meet my eyes but she's as brisk and efficient as ever, which helps in a weird way. As a woman serving in the military, especially near the front, being raped is probably one of her worst nightmares but for the most part she's trying to treat me as if nothing has changed and I really appreciate it. She also makes a great drinking buddy on occasion and doesn't tell anyone if she finds me having a panic attack in the supply cupboard. Just breathes with me until I can do it alone and then hangs the 'occupied' sign (a bent coat-hanger) out to give me some privacy. Frank, the fink, is his usual self-righteous, asshole self and I regret not letting Trapper kill the weasel.

Trapper's able to keep it together enough to function in the OR as long as he can stand near me. But while not as physically violent as the first night, the ensuing nights have been no less agonising. He's still semi-feral and not getting better. It feels like my spirit is bleeding out. Every time Trapper thrusts into me physically I can feel the corresponding tear of psychic claws into my soul. He tore the damn stitches too, even if he is using lube and trying to take it easy now.

Meanwhile Frank, of course stubbornly refuses to acknowledge anything is wrong. I almost murdered him when he said “It's your duty to do _anything_ necessary to keep McIntyre stable Pierce. Don't come whining to me just because you're gold-bricking. D'you think those boys at the front want to be there?”

Life in Leavenworth would be worth it, I grow increasingly sure.

Trapper is slowly but steadily getting worse and I'm slowly but surely dying via psychic bleeding. The only truly comforting thing is that once I'm dead I'm pretty sure the first thing Trapper will do is kill Frank. Unfortunately in his feral state Trapper'd then probably go after the rest of the camp and I still have people I consider friends here. Even if they're not the type of friends who'd come to my aid when they can hear me screaming while I'm being brutalised and raped.

***

Never thought I'd be grateful for Margaret's habit of tattling to generals but after three weeks I'm pretty sure I'd be dead in another week, and with a feral sentinel in the camp a lot of other people probably would be too. There was no way I could report it myself though, Trapper wasn't letting me out of bed for anything other than OR and the latrine. Thank anybody listening up there that Margaret had always had more sense than Frank.

When Sidney Freedman arrived from the Sentinel Psychiatric Division arrived I almost cried with relief. As a shaman Sidney could force Trapper out of his feral state (into an unconscious one) and strengthen his bond with Louise enough that it would get him home safely.

Trapper is going home and I'm off to Tokyo. I don't know whether to be relieved, jealous or terrified. Trap hurt me yes, nearly killed me actually but he was a good friend for almost a year before these last horrific few weeks. The prospect of facing Korea without my friend is almost as terrifying as the prospect of being assigned a new sentinel who might make demands that I know will kill me (stop pussyfooting around it you coward, can't you even admit it in your own head? Rape, you're scared stupid of being raped again, regardless of Sidney's promises).

My very briefly held hopes that I might be sent home too were all to quickly shot down. Not that I'd held much hope in the first place really. A male, unbonded-guide has a lot of points to make up to start with but once you add a surgeon's points on to that the only way I'm getting home before the end of the war will be in a coffin or a straight-jacket.

Sidney had tried to assure me that he'd do his best to make sure I was assigned to an unbonded-sentinel this time but unfortunately I know the odds on that as well. Bonded pairs work more efficently, so if they have an unbonded-sentinel surgeon they'll try to pair him up with an unbonded-guide nurse hoping that they'll bond.

In a hetero-normative society the only time they'd favour pairing two men would be if they were sending people to the front, where they tried to avoid sending women. Unless the sentinel specifically requests otherwise at least. Which means that I, surgical skills aside, am entirely dispensible as far as the army is concerned. Male guides could be used until their sanity broke as far as HQ was concerned. So they'll keep sending me bonded-sentinels until my sanity breaks and keep their unbonded-sentinel surgeons to pair with female, unbonded-guides who are nurses.

I even wondered briefly about requesting a transfer to an aid station. Out in the action they could pair me with an unbonded-sentinel doing military work instead of another surgeon, but I couldn't quite work out how to make it work. I couldn't run an aid station and guide a military sentinel on missions at the same time. So until my sanity shatters into pieces and I end up in a padded room with little hawks and crows flying around my head or, preferably, I die I'm here to stay. And don't tell me about therapy and 'help' for broken guides. I've heard the rumours. Everyone has.

There was a scandal a few months back when it came out that the army had been giving those unfortunate, shattered guides to feral sentinels who'd gone beyond what a shaman could do for them. Didn't want to risk a guide they could still get some use out of but apparently the chance of bringing a sentinel back to 'functional' is worth killing a few already broken guides. Some people make me sick. They're trying to sort it out but until the new army legislation goes through it's not technically illegal and it's all too easy for the army to make a few people 'disappear' during a war. So don't tell me it's a horrible thing to say, I'll take a quick, straight death any day.

When I got back from R&R in Tokyo (mostly healed up, the cast'll come off next week, I almost didn't recognise a real, sterile hospital) it was to find out that Trapper had been shipped out for home in my absence and I felt a keen, if uneasy, sense of loss. I knew better than to want to keep in touch with the bonded-sentinel (Louise would scratch my eyes out and I wouldn't blame her) but I'd have liked to say goodbye to the man I considered my best-friend for a year.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking of writing a sequel with BJ arriving, if there's any interest. It would eventually be Hawkeye/BJ/Peg. Anyone interested?


End file.
